“You should not be in these lands, my Lord,” the high priest told him, while the other priests mumbled about walking gods. “This is not your domain. You need to go back to your home.”
“And yet I am here,” yelled Tengri, not willing to listen to this madness, “and you will heed my warning.”
The high priest shook his head, then pointed his staff at Tengri. The Demigod could feel the energy buildup in the staff, which then vomited a spout of glowing power than ran full into the upper body of Tengri.
Tengri could feel the power flowing through him, energizing him while doing no harm to his corporeal form. It was like the power that had flowed into him from his worshipers, though he was sure that it had not been the intent of the Priest to aid him. His horse bucked under him in a panic, and he jumped from the beast before it came to harm from the power that his body was absorbing.
“Kill him,” yelled the high priest, lowering his staff and mumbling the words of another spell.
A pistol cracked, the ball bouncing from the light chain mail of the demigod. A bolt came in from a crossbow next, a dart that would have easily pierced even heavy chain, but instead fared the same as the bullet and bounced away. Three of temple guard came forward with drawn swords, the officer trailing two of his men who led with their shields.
Tengri drew his own sword, the blade glittering with internal light. He could read the doubt in the faces of the three soldiers, their eyes locked on that obviously divine blade. With that confirmation of their fear the demigod charged forward, his right foot lashing out and into the shield of the left side guard. His foot pushed the shield back into the man, then the soldier into the air to fly back thirty yards and land hard and unmoving on his back.
The right-side guard pushed his shield toward Tengri, holding his sword in a thrusting position, obviously hoping to follow a bash with a thrust. Tengri moved with the speed of the divine, faster than the mortal could deal with. His sword hit the shield and split it down the middle, cutting into the arm beneath. Tengri swung his blade overhead and around, striking the man on the side of the helmet with enough force to dent the metal and fling the soldier unconscious to the ground.
“Back off,” said the demigod to the officer, who was standing in a guard position, unsure how to attack. “You are no match for me, and I have no wish to kill anyone here.”
“Strike now,” yelled out one of the priests, flinging a ball of bright light into Tengri’s face from twenty yards away. The officer dashed in at the same moment, swinging his sword toward the head of the man he assumed to be blinded.
Tengri was partially blinded, but not enough to be helpless. He reacted to the blurry sight of the officer charging him, his sword thrusting out, through the man’s armor, and out of his back, dripping blood and gore from the blade, soon to be on his way to the afterlife.
“No,” shouted Tengri, who had not come here to take life, but to offer aid. He grabbed the officer and pulled his sword from the body, then lowered the man to the ground. Cold eyes glared at the priest who had blinded him, the one he blamed for the grievous harm he had caused to the man. The priest stumbled backwards under the force of the glare, and Tengri dismissed him as any kind of threat.
The demigod put his hands on the dying soldier, channeling the power that the priest had imbued him with through his staff. Tengri concentrated on the damage to the man, the ripped skin and muscles at entry and exit, the pierced intestines. Fortunately, he didn’t have to deal with a severed spine, something not beyond him, but much more difficult and energy intensive to heal.
“What is he doing?” asked one of the priests, as they started to crowd around him, their battle with the mages forgotten as they watched healing such as they could only dream of doing.
“He’s healing him,” said another priest in a hushed voice, disbelief mingling with awe.
Tengri looked up at the surrounding priest, his eyes still angry, his body exhausted. “Your man will live. Now, leave me alone, and the mages, or the next one of you I damage this way will not receive my time or energy.”
“The mages?” shouted the high priest in alarm, turning around to see how his other people were dealing with the mages. All were scattered on the paving stones, still alive, none conscious, while the mages were nowhere to be seen.
“You will come with us,” said the high priest to Tengri as the four clerics and three soldiers he still had around him closed in. “You have much to explain about why you aided the enemies of the gods.”
“Maybe the enemies of your gods,” said Tengri, sword still in hand. “Not my enemies.”
“And you are no longer a god, trespassing on the territory of beings who still are.”
“I will not go with you,” growled Tengri, waving his sword in the air. “You have seen what I can do. Move at your own peril.”
“And now you can see what we can do, once god,” said the high priest, waving a hand in the air while the other priests called out their words of power.
Tengri could feel the power of the gods of these lands coming down on him, like a heavy hand pushing him to the ground. He tried to resist, but though he still had considerable divine power, he was no longer a deity, and he felt himself slipping into a deep sleep which he could not fight. His last thought was that he had come here to rally these people to his cause, and he had failed.
Chapter Eight
King Adalwolf stood on the hilltop, watching the road below that was crowded with people from the Slavic kingdoms to the east. The line seemed to go one forever, at least to the horizon that ended in the low range of mountains that separated his kingdom from that of the Kurgans, the people closest to his borders. The trade road that linked his capital with that of the Kurgans had been packed with refugees for the last couple of days, at first a trickle that turned into a flood of folk fleeing for their lives. Wagons, those of nobles and of tradesmen; riders of horses and donkeys; those on foot, hauling their meager belongings on their backs, or pushing them in carts. A flood of once proud humanity now only concerned with saving their lives from a great evil that was after more than their physical forms, but their souls as well.
“An entire nation, on the move,” mumbled the king of the Franks, still trying to come to terms with what his eyes were showing him, a failing.
“We should have blocked the pass,” said Baron Cenric, the nobleman in charge of the king’s knights, scowling down at the refugees.
“And doom these people to certain death,” growled the king, shaking his head. “Look at them. I would be dooming an entire people.”
“Not all of them are heading this way, according to the messengers from King Izbor,” said the Baron. “He is leading his army and as many people as they can cover to the north, to the mountains bordering the Northlands.”
“And there won’t be enough to eat in those mountains,” said Adalwolf. “The Norse won’t feed them, nor will they let them into their lands to live off their crops. And the Nomads are likely to follow them into the Northlands. They will be caught between two forces they don’t have the power to resist. These are the only people of their race likely to survive.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” asked the Baron with a harsh grin. “I say let the Norse and the horse barbarians kill each other and leave less for us to worry about.”
“Your Majesty,” called out a man in the light armor of a messenger, riding his horse swiftly up the side of the hill. Behind him was a red-haired man in full armor on a charger, not pushing as hard up the slope. “Your Majesty. We have a message from the pass forts. Our enemy approaches, and the commander of the forts asks permission to seal the pass.”
“And how many Kurgans will be trapped on the other side?” asked the king, shaking his head, thinking of how many people would be crushed by the heavy rocks set to seal the pass. “And how long before the nomads find their way through the high passes?”
Adalwolf was a warrior, one who had killed two score men in combat, and led armies to kill many
more. Despite all of that, he was a compassionate man, caring for his people, and with core beliefs that would not allow him to turn his back on the needy.
“We do not know they will find those passes,” answered the baron. “But we do know they will ride down the Kurgans to get through the pass in front of them and move in force into our lands. And we can’t even move our damned infantry up the road while its clogged with all of those refugees.”
“A fine day to you, your Majesty,” said the red-haired man in heavily accented Frankish, pulling his horse to a stop at the top of the hill and giving a short bow to the monarch.
“Come to observe, Count Brian,” said Adalwolf, nodding in return as he smiled at the Eirishman.
“King Rory sent me to be liaison to your court, your Majesty. And the court is where you are. As far as observing, I just happened to have my panoply and warhorse along with me and thought you might need another sword arm.”
“Another sword arm is always welcome, Count. Especially since all we have at this point are my knights and heavy cavalry.”
“That might be enough, your Majesty,” said Cenric. “Almost ten thousand of the finest horsemen in the world. We’ll roll over the barbarians and trample them down into the ground.”
“I would prefer to have the infantry and artillery up with us,” said Adalwolf. “But they will not be here for another two or three days. So, we only have what we have, for now.”
“It might be better to fight a delaying action, your Majesty,” said Brian, his eyes narrowing.
“And I will not have these worshippers of death on my lands, Count Brian,” roared the king, shaking his head. “They will learn the price of invading my kingdom.”
The king turned away from the Eirish nobleman to stare at the road once again, plotting out the path his cavalry would take to avoid that clogged artery. After a few moments he looked back at his cavalry leader.
“Prepare the men to move out,” ordered Adalwolf in a commanding and unrelenting voice. “We will hit them in the pass with a solid wall of lances and drive them from our lands.”
“We had best hurry, your Majesty,” said the Brian in the tone of a man who thought he had better make the best of what he thought a bad decision. “We only have some few hours of daylight left.
“And who will have the advantage in the darkness, Count Brian?” asked Cenric in a derisive voice. “A bunch of nomad horse archers, or our well-trained heavy cavalry?”
* * *
“We are at the borders of the lands of the Franks, my Lord,” said the high necromancer, kneeling before the fire in which the flames had formed a demonic face. The man, for so it seemed, was dressed in flowing black robes, the hood raised over his head and hiding his face. The demonic face smiled at him, a look that would frightened most people, and brought joy to the heart of the evil wizard. “We have the remnants of the Kurgan nation fleeing before us, confounding the Franks.”
“And the trap is set?”
“It is, my Master. By morning we will have many more soldiers to add to our army of death.”
“Then go about your work, and know that the God Erlic will know how you have served, and will have your reward waiting in his hells.”
The high necromancer shivered in ecstasy. Not for him the boredom of some god’s heaven, all worship all the time, in a land of perpetual tedium. No, he was promised a place in the Hells of Erlic, as an overseer, a lord and master, torturing those lesser beings who found themselves condemned to a millennium of pain. He could think of no more fitting reward.
“We will drive into the heart of this land and put it under the dominion of Erlic as well, my Lord,” said the priest to the fading flames. He got up from his knees and turned to look at the gathered priests and ranking nomad officers.
“It looks as if the Franks will attack while there is still some light of day,” said the general in charge of this arm of the army. “We will lead them a good chase into the night.”
“And then they will discover,” said one of the ranking necromancers with a wide smile, “that the night belongs to Erlic.”
* * *
“Forward,” yelled the king at the top of his lungs. It was time, thought Adalwolf, still looking with concern at the refugees still stumbling down the road. He had wanted to give them more, but any more delay and the enemy would be through the pass, able to fan out in the flatlands beyond. That would cause more problems, when he would have to send his cavalry in penny packets out to track down the nomads, who would be spending their time killing peasants and burning farms.
Lances rose and dipped, their pennants flapping in the wind. Horns blew. And the chivalry of a kingdom started forward. Eight thousand heavy cavalry; a thousand noblemen, three thousand knights, four thousand men-at-arms in full plate. Armed with lance, sword, mace or ax, along with in most cases a pair of wheel-lock pistols. Two thousand light cavalry garbed in chain from head to foot, armed with carbines and sabers led the way and flanked the force. The sound of metal and leather fought with the thudding of hooves, almost deafening in their volume.
Count Brian rode near the king, at the front of the formation, the position of honor. The count was not so sure about that last part, since those in the front would be the most at risk during the charge. Not just from enemy fire and the wall of lances, but to fall from a horse meant that everything behind had to avoid you if you were to survive. And the people behind, and their mounts, might have other things on their minds than not running over some poor sod laying on the ground to their front.
The count was not a coward. He was considered a mighty warrior in his homeland, recklessly brave at times. But he was also a pragmatist, and this was not his kingdom. While he was willing to fight underneath the standard of Adalwolf in the name of his king, but he didn’t want to die in a foreign land.
“We only have an hour of daylight left, your Majesty,” yelled Brian to the king over the cacophony of the trotting horses. He still thought it a bad idea to strike at night. The horse archers would be at a serious disadvantage at night, not able to hit targets at long range, while the lancers could still close and destroy those light horsemen. But something about this night just felt wrong. Brian believed in the gods, and therefore believed in the supernatural. And the refugees had told stories of the dead walking alongside the nomads.
The king gave him a glare for just a moment, then turned his eyes back to the road ahead. There were still refugees on that road, not as many as before, the last dregs, hurrying to get out of the way of the noble cavalry that their experience told them would not hesitate to run them down.
Brian turned away from the king, who had already let it be known what he thought of Brian’s opinion. The Franks were known for their military prowess, especially their heavy cavalry, though they weren’t slouches in their infantry or artillery. But Brian did not believe they were the most tactically agile of warriors, unlike his people. Rory would have looked over the situation before moving, and would be willing to adjust his plan to the changing circumstances.
If it had been up to him, he would have sealed the pass off with dismounted heavy cavalry, building barricades, using the cover of the forts to either side and their own lances to ward off the enemy. They could probably hold for several days in such a deployment until the rest of the army came up. Instead, they were going to risk it all on a charge.
The column of twenty wide rode through the narrowest part of the pass. Brian looked up and to the left to see one of the forts, an old castle from the days before gunpowder that had been upgraded to handle artillery. He could see the dark of the gun ports, but not the guns themselves. Glancing to the other side he saw the other fort, slightly smaller than the first.
The last of the refugees moved to the side of the widening pass, eyes wide in the fear of being trapped between two forces that would pound them into paste. Most of the horsemen tried to avoid them, though refugees were still spun to the ground from contact with heavy warhorses here and there. A few of t
he more callous riders hit people on purpose. Their leaders yelled at them, but did little else, as they all had other concerns as the pass started to widen.
Now the nobles and sergeants started chivying the men into wider columns, thirty wide, then forty, sixty, getting up to a hundred wide and eighty deep. An unstoppable mass of steel, flesh and bone. The king raised his voice as the first of the nomad horsemen appeared ahead, small men on small horses, animals bred for endurance and speed, not carrying capacity. About a third of the nomads held lances, the rest recurve bows. The horse archers started to notch shafts and raise their bows at an angle.
“Charge,” yelled the king, and the lances and pennants again rose and dipped, the horns sounded, and the horsemen put their spurs to their mounts, forging ahead.
The horse archers released, and a shower of thousands of shafts rose into the air, arched over at their highest point, and came down on the front rows of the knights. Brian reached up and pulled his visor down, and action mimicked by most of the men around him, including the king. The arrows came whistling down, most to strike off the armor of the heavy troopers or the neck and back barding of the horses. Most in the front ranks, the first five in the column, wore fine quality armor that had been worked by the alchemists to become harder than regular steel. A few arrows hit the joints of the armor, pushing through the chain underneath. One hit a horse in the leg, and the beast stumbled and fell, throwing his rider and causing several following riders to fall as well. And several men, those too foolish to lower their visors, took arrows through the face, rendering them incapable of combat, if not dead.
The cavalry rumbled forward, picking up speed. Another flight of arrows came down on them, this volley doing less damage than the first. Seeing the ineffectiveness of their shafts, the nomads turned their mounts and spurred away as fast as they could ride.
The Franks had the momentum, and closed with the rear ranks of the nomads, spearing men from their saddles. Some of the men in the front rank fired one of their wheel locks, knocking some nomads from their mounts. The remaining nomads rode away on their faster light mounts, as the Frankish horseman howled in anger and frustration.
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 8